Revenge Can Lead The Heart Astray
by Glaerdrune
Summary: Jonathan Crane's brilliant mind was destroyed, and now he wants revenge. But what happens when Bruce Wayne comes into the picture? Crane's so-called 'revenge' quickly turns into something far more complicated... *Crane/Wayne* Rated M for later chapters
1. Chapter 1

A dark mist drifted slowly over the wet, glistening streets of Gotham City. The waning moon was high, almost completely obscured by smoky cloud. Persistent slivers of light soaked through yet, glancing off of rooftops and citizens alike. There was an intoxicating scent on the wind, and the omniscient smell of smoke and gunpowder occupied the Narrows. Somewhere, buried deep in the shadows, behind brick and stirring papers in a cold, dank alley, long dark lashes flickered. The shimmering moonlight reflected in two pools of icy blue fire, as the former Dr Jonathan Crane opened his eyes.  
'Ever the Romanticist, aren't you, Jonny?' Scarecrow hissed to his counterpart bitterly. Scarecrow had mounted a stray horse on the Doctor's request, the young man keening quietly at the back of his mind for the reassurance he would feel astride the beast, not wanting to be trampled by the teems of running civilians. And so the Scarecrow and his Doctor rode about the streets, delivering added fear to Gotham's panicky residents like a knight in midnight armour.  
But after that little scene with the Taser, Jonny had blacked out and Scarecrow had seen ample opportunity to take over completely. He felt it was safer to hide his little Jonathan away until things-like the air-cleared up._  
Be quiet._ the newly awakened Crane muttered on the corner of Scarecrow's existence, still trying to get used to being pushed to the wrong end of consciousness without panicking. It was an odd feeling, akin to that of standing in a dark and dusty room, attempting to peer out of a small, grimy window a few feet away. He felt as if there was a niggling itch in his brain... Only, _he_ was the itch.  
'Shush, my dear.' Scarecrow replied with a snarl. 'I'll get you out of here soon enough.' He slowly got to his feet, holding his stomach and coughing madly. His eyebrows furrowed in thought as he leant against the wall for support. He felt weak. There were electric tremors still coursing through his body. He had to find shelter for them both-and fast.  
Soft rain started to patter lightly on the ground, swapping the musty smell of the air for one of iron and cold stone. Scarecrow coughed once more, shivering. It wasn't hard to find abandoned buildings in the Narrows, surely? He glanced down at the burlap sack with a satisfied smirk. Laying there, the eyes no longer holding their glow, the mask not as frightening as it had been at the first, it looked lifeless. This was true, in a way. The life had left that mere mask when the Toxin kicked in. Suppressed sadism had combined with the persona Jonathan took on with his 'patients', and Scarecrow had awoken in total control of the shared body. He'd loved every moment of his emerging consciousness, sliding into Jonathan's weakened mind to strengthen and knock down walls accordingly. But now it was time for him to take the initiative, and as he staggered through the shadows of the Narrows, he cursed the sleight frame and those skinny legs of his. Eager blue eyes latched on to a particularly run-down, small building which visually screamed_ shelter, _and Scarecrow made up his mind. Breaking with ease the rusting hinges of a door, he dragged himself over to the corner of the room, and promptly collapsed.  
'Alright, Jonny, I've done your work for you. Now, it's time for us both to get some sleep.'  
There was no reply.

* * *

A week later, and Crane had just about made the slum habitable.

He'd realised early on that he couldn't go back to his apartment yet. That would be the first place they'd look for him, and he had no immediate desire to get caught by the authorities. So he'd holed up temporarily in this disgrace, and he was quite sick of it. Most of the dust had escaped the rooms when he'd opened some of the windows, but he had an unnerving suspicion that the various types of spider living with him were both poisonous and powerfully sentient. He swore one of them had even stolen a packet of biscuits he had left on the table once.  
Scarecrow may or may not have been guilty of that charge.  
Jonathan had found scattered cans lying around at first. They were all over the house, playing an eternal game of hide and seek with unwary newcomers. Then he had come across a refrigerator with a little bit of food still icily cocooned inside it. It occurred to him that the house's previous occupants had perhaps been subjected to the fear toxin in the streets, and not lived to return home.  
That had brought the shadow of a smile to his face, and he giggled a little bit, dark mood lightening with irony.  
However, he was beginning to get the idea that he would have to exit the household in search of more food. And he couldn't stay in one place for very long, Scarecrow had reasoned that with him. He was a criminal now. Speaking of criminals, as Jonathan was gathering his wits about him, and deciding whether or not to leave the grotty building, who should smash right through the door that Crane had somewhat lovingly replaced upright against its frame, but the Bloody Batman himself. Crane seethed immediately, clambering up the opposite wall to his feet. He glanced quick as a flash for anything that could be used as a weapon. But Batman was quicker, on him in an instant and pinning his wrists high.

'Crane.' came the gravelly voice.

Jonathan giggled, 'Partially.' He received a hard shove against the gritty brick wall in return.

'Dr. Crane!' ground out the voice once more.

'What do you want? Or is this just an amicable visit, Bat-man?' Jonathan sneered at the man in a Bat costume.

'You tried to tear Gotham apart!'

'I think you'll find I _didn't, Sir_. I was Only. Following. Orders.'

'Nonsense! You knew what you were doing!'

Black Kevlar crushed into poor skinny Crane's chest, causing him to wheeze. Scarecrow tapped him on the metaphorical shoulder, a reminder of his diligent presence. _Is the Bat bothering you, Jonny? Want me to come out and clip those wings of his?_ Crane acknowledged Scarecrow, silently allowing him to take control of the situation. Jonathan was never one for the physical aspects of things, and now he simply had somebody to do it for him. He knew Scarecrow could be trusted; after all, he was Scarecrow-Or rather, had been, before... Ah, yes, before the very man stood now before him had had the nerve to spray him with his own fear gas.

Outwardly, Crane's red-rimmed eyes took on an animalistic gleam, and the hair settled messily across his face suddenly made him look wilder, and more dangerous. He bit his lip in a feral manner.

'So what if I did? What's it to _you_, Ba**t**-man?'

Batman blinked. He noticed the obvious change in something about Dr. Crane. It had been in the air around him, no feature of himself had actually altered. The Batman paused for a moment.

'I suppose I should thank you, **Bat**-man, for giving me this life! But that would ruin all the _fun_.'

'What are you talking about, Crane?'

'_Dr. Crane isn't here right now_,' Scarecrow echoed helpfully, '_but if you'd like to make an appointment..._' He finished with an evil smirk.

Batman couldn't find a reply to that. He found himself instead staring at that smirk with a feeling of unease settling through him, and reverted back to his original point, 'You were responsible for the chaos in Gotham last week, for all the deaths and damage that was done! You deserve to be punished!'

Jonathan leapt back into the conversation, rebellious and wronged. His facial expressions twisted for a moment as Scarecrow mentally moved over.

'_We were merely giving to them what they had coming. Oh, you should have been there, Bat-man!'_ they both said, '_The sheer terror! Gotham's scum of the streets running around with blind fear!'_

_We?_ Batman thought, puzzled and slightly frightened. He held tight to Crane's slim wrists apprehensively.

'_The blood, and the tears!_' Jonathan and Scarecrow delightedly cried. '_And the sound of screams..._' they sang longingly in a sickly-sweet tone.

Batman shivered. That voice... It was haunting, strumming with discord. Beautifully broken.

'You're out of your mind. I'm taking you straight to Arkham, where you belong.'

Crane snorted, and burst into a fit of laughter. '_Arkham! _To become a patient of_ my own_ facility, you mean? Ah, well. At least I know I'm in _good hands.'_

'It's what you need!'

'It's what _you want._'

'Shut up!'

'You're not doing this out of selflessness, Batman. Your desire to fight crime is because _you_ don't want criminals on the streets of Gotham. It's not your love for this city, it's your personal vendetta against those who break the law. And it's going to drive you_ c-r-azy_, one day. Crazy, just like how you sent my precious mind into oblivion.'

'Shut up!'

'Haha! Do you have _any idea_ how _hard_ it is to cope with the hallucinations, Batman? _Do you?_ Oh _nooo,_ you won't yet, but that's _fiiine_,' he sang, 'You will soon enough, and then we can be insane together! Won't that be _delightful?_'

'I said, **shut up!**' Batman cried, punching Crane's fragile face a little bit harder than was necessary. His regret only heightened when he realised he had just knocked the mentally ill male out cold. Placing his hand on the other man's once-erratic pulse told him it was for the best. He picked up the floppy-limbed Crane slowly, and was shocked to find that he could do it with great ease. Jonathan must have weighed the same as a large duvet; the man seriously needed some nourishment. Batman was certain the Asylum would provide for this thin wonder, which motivated him further into taking Crane to Arkham before the Police. Looking down at Dr. Crane, Batman frowned. This person didn't look the type for organised crime. His features were too feminine, his skin soft and oddly pale. His frame was small; one hit and the guy had fainted, goddamnit. The Batman wondered how a person as quiet as Crane had ended up even meeting Ra's al Ghul, let alone working for him in producing those... chemicals.

Trying to be a bit more considerate, Batman carried the unconscious man to the strategically-placed Tumbler, where awaited a pair of handcuffs and a trip to the mental institution known as Arkham Asylum. He was silent for the whole journey, which, considering the speed of the tumbler and the proximity of the asylum, was not a very long one.

* * *

Jonathan Crane woke at last, just as a huge syringe full of blue liquid was about to be slammed into his forearm. He leaped up immediately.

'_Get that fucking thing away from me!_' he shrieked fearfully at the doctors, staring at the needle intently. Struggling at the newly-discovered straitjacket only hurt himself in the process.

'I'm not _mad!_ I used to _run_ this hell! I used to pay all of you!'

'Relax, Crane... Everything is going to be all right.' One of the female doctors reassured him as he was held down and the needle penetrated skin.

'No it's not! It's _noooot! Batman this is all your fault, I'm going to get you goingtogetyougoingtogetyou...'_

Jonathan and his Scarecrow repeated it like a mantra in their drugged state, screaming it furiously until their vision clouded over, enveloping them in the muffled darkness of unconsciousness once more.

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Oh lord. Firstly, allow me to apologise _**profusely**_ for the _time_ between chapters DDD: I think my procrastination has reached fatal levels... FATAL, I say. Feel free to steal all my imaginary cookies at will.

Fyi, the best you can hope for is a well-written sappy mush of whatever. Also, apologies, I seem to think that I am my own beta reader, so if anything doesn't sit right, it's because my mind has gone off on a tangent that nobody can follow :P Watch my brain fail to work, wheee!

Thanks for indulging me and reading! And thank all of you for your wonderful reviews! I will try not to disappoint you, my lovelies. Of course, if I haven't already with all the time it's been _I'msosorry_ D:

Hope you enjoy this strange fic, wherever it seems to be going ._.

Cheers,

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

* * *

Bruce Wayne, billionaire, woke with a start, the image of bright blue eyes and the taste of full lips lingering still. But like all fleeting dreams, it was long gone before he was aware enough to wonder what it was.

'Morning Master Wayne!' forced the voice on the other side of his eyelids in homely Cockney diction, vigorously shaking him. He groaned, opening them cautiously. The tinny sound of a faraway television faded in, and he quietly clenched his teeth.

'Wha' time is it?' he asked Alfred, the way he asked every morning.

'Six thirty, sir,' was the eternal reply, 'and if you don't get up now, you'll be late.'

Bruce sat up, yawning.  
The butler continued.

'Now, you have a meeting with the head of Milestone Corporation with regards to your charity work and future business plans.'

He laid a freshly-pressed shirt on the tabletop, along with the rest of his master's attire for the day.

'And then you should go and talk to Lucius; I believe he has concluded the matter you gave to him.'

'Ah, excellent.'

The billionaire stood and stretched, glancing out of his window at the incandescent rising sun.

'And he's repaired your suit.' his butler added dryly. 'I think he deserves more appreciation than what you're showing him, if you don't mind me saying sir, 'cause that is no mean feat, what with all the scrapes you get yourself into.'

'Yes, yes. I'll be sure to thank him later.'

Alfred patted down the bed covers neatly, and turned to leave. When he reached the door he paused, turning on his heels.

'Oh, Bruce?'

'What is it, Alfred?'

Alfred gestured to his eyes with considerable mirth.

'You look an awful lot like a panda right now, sir.'

Bruce brought his hands to his own eyes, and they came back grubby. _The greasepaint. Damn._  
Grabbing his suit-the business one, not the Kevlar- and washing the marks off of his face, he found his thoughts wandering briefly to the subject of the chaos in the Narrows some three months prior, before they were forever lost in the abiding morning routine.

* * *

Three months. _Three months _in this _hellhole._ And what had that done to cure his supposed insanity? Nought. All it had done was given him sleepless nights, aching muscles, and an inexplicable craving for dark chocolate. The other doctors just didn't get it. He wasn't insane! Granted, there _was_ one extra occupant in his head, but neither of them were muttering about the sheep who built the pyramids, or any of_ that_. They had accepted it enough to free him from the straitjacket, but... Jonathan didn't think he would be getting out of the cell anytime soon. Still, it was rather amusing to see the workers taken aback by the sight of their former boss now clothed in the ugly orange jumpsuit of an inmate. It seemed as though some of them were still worried for their jobs when talking to him, forgetting how much higher they now were in terms of hierarchy. As for the newer Arkham employees, those fools were easily disturbed, easily thrown off when the patronising tone they took with the criminally insane was met with his educated, eloquent and cynical comments, iced with a practice-perfect arched brow. It was almost worth the expression of abject horror on their faces to be stuck in his own asylum for so long.

**Almost.**

'I don't even _belong _in here.' he moaned to himself, 'It's not like we're going to hurt anyone by existing. And I'm a psychologist. Surely I'd know when I myself needed treatment of this magnitude!'

_But they're not going to listen to that, are they?_ Scarecrow put forward, _To them, you're nothing but a mindless madman, and nothing you do or say is going to change that._

There was a silence, or the empty void of something like a silence when somebody had ceased to think. Then Scarecrow eased in with, _We'll have to take matters into our own hands, Jonny. I suggest you figure out an escape plan ._

'Will you shut up?' Jonathan snapped out loud, 'As if I haven't been trying to do just that. I literally can't hear myself think with you_ interrupting_ every five minutes.' He tugged at strands of hair anxiously. Who knew his own personality could be so dislikeable?

_Jonny, _Jonny, _I'm only trying to help, _ Scarecrow comforted.

Scarecrow **hadn't** been very helpful over the past three months. In fact, Crane had been thoroughly annoyed, in the way that only he could annoy himself. He had even gone so far as to make an agreement with the other. Jonathan would get the daylight hours all to himself, only if Scary could take the nights (or in the case of the unnatural facility, Lights Out). The arrangement was almost in the manner of taking turns to play Doctor. On the off chance that Crane got some time to himself, he contemplated whether or not he was too repressive before the toxin caused this split personality, if it _was_ that. Crow seemed to be uniquely him and uniquely resembling nobody he had ever met; completely unlike a different personality.

Surely more than mere repressed urges given a voice?

Scarecrow also appeared to be both the most primal and most vulnerable of the two. There were times when Crow swore to protect the both of them, and times when Scary was... Well, scared. Of everything. The screaming at night was partially the reason the cold, dark asylum cell was still their home. Another was, of course, Batman. Crane grimaced at the thought of the flying rodent that had put him in his predicament. That Bat must have some serious psychological problems of his own to feel the inclination to dress up as a nocturnal flying mammal and fight crime. '_Only in Gotham_,' sighed the formerly Doctor Crane, shaking his head. He had been giving it some considerable thought lately, to pass the wretchedly tedious hours alone, and had come to a couple of half-conclusions. Now, however, his intelligence was directed on how to get outside. He missed the grey skies almost as much as his dignity. He craved fresh food that his taste buds wouldn't reject upon contact, and the scent of coffee in the early hours of day. He longed for the distant and detached respect of those below him,_ especially_ the kind borne of fear. And the man in the cell beside him liked to sing nursery rhymes.  
Doctor Jonathan Crane had never been so sick of his workplace in his life.

_We've got to get out of here._

_

* * *

_

Alarm bells shrilled. A criminal patient had escaped.

Jonathan sighed bitterly, tapping his fingers on the edge of the hard, clinical mattress. How the _fuck_ did they do that?

_Wish that was me. _

'Wish that was you too, Crow._ I'm_ hardly enjoying this.'

He stared at the floor, eyes tracing the various cracks and stains of the once-white atrocity. In the fuzzy focus of his eyes without their glasses, he could just about make out some of the unstable scribblings of the previous occupant. And after a few minutes' reading, he rather wished that he couldn't.  
The alarms increased in volume. Crane could hear the Asylum guards outside the door shuffling anxiously, eager to sort out this little mishap.  
The crackle of the overhead speakers almost drowned out the low, husky voice accompanying it.

'All attendants to Section 32. I repeat, **all** attendants to Section 32.'

Funny; even as former head of the Asylum, he'd never heard that voice before.  
The guards could now be seen running towards the west wing from the east one where Crane was situated.  
He looked up from the maddened scrawls curiously. There was a sudden long beep, a loud click, and _every door to every cell_ in the east wing of Arkham was unlocked and agape. There was a tense, awkward pause, and then the gruff sound of intense and cutting laughter burst from the intercom like a smoker's cough, instigating the escape of all those who had the means and the desire.  
It took a short moment for the wide open exit to register in Jonathan's mind, but that same moment it had, he leapt up from his position and dashed. Jonathan and his Scarecrow seized the moment, with both hands.  
Doctor Crane was not good at pushing his way through the crowd of mentally ill, but his slightness allowed him the advantage of being able to slip through. And of course, he knew the building well. He knew the shortcuts and the well-hidden corridors to freedom, and he was so close that he could taste it. It tasted like Gotham's polluted air, and heavy, sweetened rain.

Nobody noticed much in the Narrows, because generally it was better not to have witnessed something illicit, and evolution had eliminated the curious in that rough patch a long time ago. So it was that nobody noticed the orange-clad men and women spilling out into the street from behind the doors of Arkham. Nobody noticed the skinny young thing, slipping into the shadows of an alley with a determined look of both elation and fear on his face.  
Nobody noticed the formidable Jonathan Crane make his getaway, muttering to himself, or perhaps someone he imagined he was talking to, 'Somebody's going to pay for this...'

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: 'Quicker this time, huh?' is what I wrote when I originally intended to publish this chapter. Instead it's been perhaps a year since the last one. A YEAR. I've turned into one of the bi-annual authors that I loathe loving, and I'm so sorry. I'd like to thank you guys for even sticking with me thus far! (minor excuse time, I lost a whole chunk of the story when my phone's SD card became corrupted, but never mind, hold me responsible however much you like). This isn't the best chapter, but I promise I have more on the way, so hopefully you won't kill me just yet...

Love you all!

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

Oh, and my timeline of events as pertaining to the last two films is totally skewed, but just go with it. Though it may have started out as Nolanverse, this fic is now more a milkshake mix of all the movies and a video game or two, with the '60s TV series thrown in for kicks (West Wayne is best Wayne :3).

And one more thing, the first few sentences aren't the _of the Closet_ kind ;D

* * *

Out.

He was out! They were out!

Crane's euphoric rejoicing was quickly displaced by the emptiness of uncertainty.

_Now what?_

_..._

_I don't know._

He stopped; stood; caught his breath, taking refuge in the shade of the tight little street that eluded the light of evening. The violet-and-vermillion of the fast-fading sun cast strange shadows across the young man's gaunt face as he surveyed the frantic scene. A sea of orange jumpsuits-some faces familiar, others not so-scattered into the Narrows, running through the streets. Plenty of the escapees stood stock still, as unsure of what to do with themselves as Crane, while the more unfortunate inmates were curled up on the hard ground, or anxiously scratching at their own skin and murmuring hoarse gibberish to calm themselves.

The Doctor did not tarry long. It was decided that he was still at great risk of discovery, and his instincts once again told him to find a more permanent hideout. His old hunt was off limits as a long-term solution; after the whole incident in the Narrows, and the implications of his involvement, investigations were sure to have been carried out-_if_ the Gotham police force had enough incentive. They weren't exactly _reliable_ when it came to crime in this city. Nevertheless, the authorities would also be alerted of the breakout soon enough, and after all, that damned Bat had found him in an _abandoned building_. The Rodent's adept skill more than made up for the lack of a threat posed by the Gotham police force, and Jonathan was certainly unwilling to risk a second encounter considering the nature and consequences of his last.

Scarecrow scoffed at Jonathan's logical debate, agreeing all the same. The alternate identity proved his essential and influential addition to Jonathan's life by adding input of his own to the mental planning. Indeed, they'd have to disappear, take extra precautions against being found. Perhaps infiltrating society, hiding far under the radar, would be an adequate plan. Jonathan had managed well enough beneath his quiet Doctor persona before, Scarecrow mused, and it would surely work again.

This was fairly accurate. The stable and authoritative Doctor Crane of Arkham Asylum had been the true mask, disguising all that Scarecrow had emancipated. Scarecrow had been liberation.

Oh yes, Crane would have to reclaim his scant belongings, in whatever state they might be, and find somewhere else, somewhere inconspicuous and preferably_ very_ far away to dwell. With one last, defiant look to the dubious institute that had somehow managed to both make and break his career, Dr. Jonathan Crane made his way amongst the countless fugitives, thanking the heavens and praising one man's need for chaos.

* * *

The former Doctor raced back to the one-bedroom apartment that he had inhabited during his glorious days as Arkham's head. Scarecrow chattered excitedly on the way, about the escape and the Bat and, God save him, birds, and jittery Jonathan found himself jumping at a couple of unfamiliar shadows along the memorised route. When he had started his work with Ra's Al Ghul he had picked a simple, cheap apartment in the Narrows to inhabit, both for its proximity to Arkham and its anonymity-it wouldn't do to have anyone tracing the drugs trade to a prestigious house that they _knew_ belonged to certain powerful people. He also hadn't been one for unnecessary luxuries, confident as he was in the mind's power over the body. It _was _a considerably small living space, but it had suited his needs and purpose for a time.

_I think I'm going to miss this place, _Scarecrow tittered.

'Oh, do be quiet.'

Crane had begun to walk towards the entrance of the building when Scary hissed,

_Don't use the front door! That would prove rather unwise._

After a little contemplation and eventual conclusion, Jonathan noiselessly circled the block and tried a particularly flimsy window with caution, falling through and landing on his faded paisley carpet with a sharp _bump._

* * *

'Ah Mister Wayne, there you are! I almost thought you'd forgotten me.' Lucius Fox laughed in greeting his employer.

'Good afternoon, Lucius.'

'Good afternoon to _you_, Mister Wayne.'

'So...'

'So?' he grinned knowingly.

'Were you able to find any information on those people that I asked about?'

Fox handed him a small number of paper print-outs. 'From the very best,' he added enigmatically. Bruce flicked through the pages, skim-reading a passage or two.

'Thanks, this is great. And did you get anything on the individual cases of theft?'

'I'm sorry Mister Wayne, but that sort of thing isn't of much interest to these organizations. Rather inconvenient, really, but they don't think the theft of mundane items like those can be too important, and the news sites are far more concerned with the present than the past. It might be in the old newspaper records that they keep at the main library, though. I would have gone myself, but the tear in that Kevlar you made this time was pretty hard to fix.'

He shrugged, 'And besides, as a follow-up to Wayne Foundation's generous donation to the City Library it'll be good for both your image and the Press if the airheaded playboy you pretend to be decides to read a book for once, instead of the label on the bottle in his hand.'

'Playboys like me don't need to read books,' laughed the billionaire with mock-indignation, to which Fox's friendly smile widened.

'Well then, Mister Wayne, I'm sure you can show them with a bit of reverse psychology.'

Bruce laughed again, and then his tone darkened slightly.

'Listen, Lucius. I'm sorry about what happened, before. If the circumstances hadn't called for it-'

'Oh, that's all right with me,' replied Lucius Fox in a forgiving manner, 'You righted it, didn't you?' There was a long pause that both men tried and failed to fill, striking a discord in an otherwise friendly conversation.

'...Now, is there anything else you'll be needing? Decided to try your hand at any other sports? _Extreme Ironing_, perhaps?'

'As a matter of fact...' Bruce retorted, smiling cheekily. Lucius tutted.

'You billionaires and your toys. I'll be sure to inform you when something that might interest you comes up. And in the meantime, I'll keep working on those confounded riddles.'

'You do that, Lucius.'

Bruce got up to leave, remembering something at the last moment.

'Oh and, thanks for the repairs. I'll come to collect the items on Monday.'

'Yeah, yeah,' he dismissed with a wave of his hand. 'I'm not your dry-cleaner. Remember, you'd better look after yourself, Bruce!' the man called out after him, 'I'm not sure that the Suit's entirely resistant to fund-raisers!'

The head of Wayne Enterprises couldn't help chuckling to himself. Thinking back to the various parties he'd attended as Playboy Wayne, that was actually some pretty good advice.

* * *

Stumbling about in his old apartment, Crane resisted the intense urge to scream.

They'd wrecked it.

Those law enforcement imbeciles had thrown his belongings about like trash, and taken not only everything of significant value, but at first glance all of his toxin too-his only means of self-defense. The rooms had been bare enough to begin with, for Jonathan was often efficient and seldom sentimental. Now however they looked practically barren; the clothing, books and scant furniture scattered about shabbily somehow made the apartment look _emptier._ Doctor Crane took pride in his skills of organisation and planning, and the current mess was positively killing his already frayed nerves. At least his cell at Arkham had been relatively uncluttered!

The apartment's former inhabitant located with measured relief his smart grey coat-once neatly and lovingly creased at the seams, now tossed carelessly in a heaped pile-and hesitantly checked the inside of his wallet.

...

'Those _bastards!_'

_Talk about a dishonest police force._

'Shut up!' hissed the Doctor, furious. The man whirled around and slid an arm under the bed, feeling for something that had been tied devotedly and discreetly to the weak support planks.

_Well, they hadn't taken __this__..._

After rifling through the remains of his old life for half an hour (with increasing frustration), Jonathan had managed to discard his jumpsuit and reclaim a few select items of clothing, a book on Advanced Mathematics as applied to Chemistry (another one on Pharmacology had been left behind; he needed it no longer, for he'd memorised it all), a small sum of money and the distinctive article from beneath the bed. The sound of distant sirens brought Crane back to the gritty reality of his current situation. The high-pitched droning wail made Crane jump, biting his lip with anxiety. Hastily placing what he had salvaged into a small canvas bag, Crane and Scarecrow made their swift exit. The Doctor clambered promptly down the emergency stairs, sliding on the wet pavement in his last remaining pair of shoes and skidding into an alleyway that for once did not seem to herald certain death. In this manner the man made his escape, hiding the precious bag carefully en route. It would be too much to hope for successful escape from the area if he were taking his possessions with him, and besides, he hardly had a place to settle for the night, and finding that took top priority. There was no time for dwelling on it now, but no matter; he would be back for them soon enough.

_To be continued.  
(Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel)_

Remember kids, reviews are love! And more reviews means more motivation to write as I tell myself there are people actually reading this~ _  
_


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Yes it's that time of year again! Another chapter of Revenge Can Lead The Heart Astray! I wasn't going to watch TDKR and _not_ go on a complete Batman spree, now, was I? Don't worry, no spoilers in this story since it's an odd clash of universes rather than strict Nolanverse, but y'know. You should definitely go see it if you haven't already.  
The usual oh my god thank you for putting up with me, thank you for all the lovely reviews, and hopefully after this chapter stuff won't be so slow-paced, yes? Also sorry if this chapter is a bit Crane-centric but I really love writing him and, you know, slight platonic Crane/Scarecrow is cool C:

Keep calm and go watch Batman,

Glaerdrune XXX

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything. If I did, there'd be a little more Crane and a lot more kissing ;D Which we'll get to at some point, cross my heart.

Now on with the story!

* * *

'I-I don't know nothin' about no small-time upstart in these parts, I swear, just put me dowow_oooown!_'

'You're sure you haven't heard anything,' came the low, gruff reply from the man in the cowl, who had decided to forgo the Library in lieu of doing some additional research during his familiar nightly routine.  
The caped crusader shook the terrified man a little bit, and a handful of stolen wallets fell from within the folds of his jacket, colliding with the dampened streets so far below with the wet splats of ruined leather.

'Because there's a jail cell with your name on it,_ Jones_, and it'll be even worse for you if you don't answer me.'

The petty thug and occasional dealer was lifted higher above the grubby slums, to his great dismay, resulting in his shrill vibrato cries of protest raising a whole octave.

'Oh God, _oh God_, okay okay I'll come quietly, geez. But I swear I ain't heard about no puny thief like that, nobody bothers with those greens 'acause they jus' get in the way of things around here, Jesus Christ jus' don't _hurt_ me, Bats.'

There was a pause, as if Batman were processing the given information and weighing up its validity, before he acquiesced and pulled back, allowing the shaking criminal to swing freely.

'It's not me you have to worry about,' he growled in annoyance, 'You have your own crimes to pay for. You're an enemy of the law, and there are _always_ consequences.'

The vigilante ended his sentence with a rough cough and a dramatic swish of his cape as he disappeared from the scene, leaving the poor man behind to dangle precariously.

The man swiftly shifted from terror to defeat at the sound of the sirens, as a cop car emerged from the distance.

'Aw, _crap_.'

* * *

Jonathan and Scarecrow's flawed, fiery desire to end Batman quickly and violently and _immediately _was decided too hasty and emotive to be rational; acting now could get him killed. Vengeance the like of which he truly wished to visit upon the caped crusader needed time, proper planning and structure in order to be successfully carried out. He should worry about his own wellbeing first, and that fucking rodent second. The Bat could wait.

Living arrangements for the moment were horrendous; expenses were covered by the meagre amount of money left around Crane's former apartment. Wishing to escape notice until he could get back on his feet and resume his operations, any large bank withdrawals were out of the question. Crane had answered an advertisement in a shop window concerning very cheap two-room tenancy by a bitter and articulate old landlady, who but for her kind manner towards him would have met with an untimely end, reminding him as she did of someone very close to home. As it was, her near-deafness proved useful to him; she was either oblivious to or easily accepting of the occasional night terrors, and the muffled screaming. She didn't notice the sudden shortage of her daily medication, either.  
He was, thankfully, the only one apparently as desperate for such deteriorated housing; other tenants of the apartments blew by for a day or two, leaving again almost immediately and never extending their stay for long enough to irritate him. In return for the adequate living space, the Doctor would perform mundane tasks for his landlady, fiddling with the concentration in the soil of her potted plants, forming breathtaking compounds that put the average drain cleaner to shame, and generally keeping to himself. In her gratitude she would sometimes break his diet of ready-made plastic-coated meals by making him something even more godawfully tasteless, often leaving him thankful for what little income he could scrounge to buy the aforementioned microwavable foods. Jonathan had tried to cook his own meals in the past, but had quickly learned that though cookery appeared on the surface to be an extensively crude form of chemistry, when he tried to apply his knowledge of this to any use the results were… less than pleasant.

As for the issue of Crane's appearance: a self-inflicted and deliberately lopsided haircut-there was nothing better to focus the eyes away from the face-had been dyed a stark and hasty black, and with clear knowledge of his own most noticeable features, Crane had invested in a pair of dark coloured contacts. He didn't need his glasses for much more than reading; they had been an aspect of the typical studious Doctor persona that he had tried to replicate, if not embody, during his time at the top, and so getting rid of them was for the most part a wise move.

By the end of the ordeal Jonathan was, although still fairly recognisable, at least not _immediately_ and _obviously _so.  
Crane found he could function almost as normal in everyday situations, with only the occasional internal remark from Scarecrow reminding him of his extra bat in the belfry. Apart from the jumpiness and occasionally morbid comments, there were few outward signs of inner turmoil and the lasting impression that the fear toxin had made on his oh-so-delicate mind. The hallucinations had not stopped, but he was slowly getting used to them, and was becoming sadly hardened by the half-imagined caws and flutters in the darkest hours of night. Prone to bouts of insomnia, this was another aspect that the Doctor had grown accustomed to, and he did a lot of his deeper thinking and planning in the terrifying early hours of morning, while Scarecrow took his turn and huddled childlike under clammy, scratchy sheets.

His hopes for revenge had only grown with each passing day, the young man reminding himself of the cause of his current predicament, and in those idle hours had talked over strategies, and possible alliances-with those who had been similarly affected by the flying rodent's misguided sense of personal and self-inflicted justice.  
Oh, Batman had his enemies. A plethora of them. Some of which, due to his time both at and _in _Arkham, he had more than a passing acquaintance with. There was no end to the selection Crane had to choose from. Pamela had her charms, though Jonathan had noticed it mostly in her scientific knowledge. He hadn't seen much of her from the wrong side of the asylum bars, but when he was still a practising Arkham doctor their private sessions had proved quite the thrill. Jervis Tetch had irritated him to no end, and many of his amicable conversations with Harvey Dent had been ruined by the Scarecrow's spats with Two-Face. Cobblepot didn't seem too happy to see him in the staple orange, after their previous confidential talks concerning the Penguin's obsession with birds and the sorrows of his broken childhood. And Killer Croc, that petty thug… well _he _was hardly even worth thinking about. Then there was the Joker, who seemed to have kicked off quite a lot of fuss at his big debut, and was most likely the godsent cause of the Arkham breakout. He seemed another fair candidate and worthy ally, if Jonny kept wary of his idiosyncrasies and… other personal habits.

Costumed villains aside, Doctor Crane still retained some of the older, more conventional contacts, despite Ra's' unfortunate demise. It should not prove too difficult to formulate a plan, with a mind like his, access to some of his old resources and a handful of such _choice_ associates.

* * *

'Master Wayne, I think you should take a look at this.'

The dedicated butler handed his employer the morning's newspaper, turned crisply to the page headlined, **'Arkham's inmates out again, many still not found.'**

Bruce sighed heavily, his head hanging with the weight of the revelation. A lesser man would be inclined to sob at the amount of work wasted, but at this point the playboy billionaire and his weary alter ego were more than used to the ups and downs of crime fighting.

'Thanks, Alfred,' he replied, before turning his attention to the printed sheet.

'The breakout occurred at approximately four o'clock on Tuesday morning, and is believed to have been brought about by fluctuations in the building's electricity causing some of the locks and emergency measures to malfunction. The matter is being looked into currently, and so far counted among the alleged escapees is the tragic former Arkham employee Doctor Crane (full story of the Gotham Narrows debacle covered in a previous issue), as well as a couple of crazed ex-mob members, the formidable Pamela Isley, Jervis Tetch, former attorney and unfortunate burn victim Harvey Dent, the eccentric Oswald Cobblepot and many other lesser-known patients, all of whom were being kept in separate cells in the west wing of the building, the partition for the criminally insane, when the security failed. Though it is thought that most of the escaping criminals have been confined to the Narrows, it would be ill-advised to leave your homes until these dangerous men and women have been found.'

Bruce ran a pained hand across his face, groaning with the anticipated exertion of capturing the criminals.

'Christ,' he exclaimed to himself, 'You guys are like batarangs. I stick you in Arkham where you all belong, and some freak just lets you back out again!'

Damn it, he would have to be on extra alert when he did his nightly rounds. He would not allow such dangerous criminal scum to roam _his _streets.

'Alfred, make sure the Suit is ready tonight. I'm afraid I might need to focus on getting these loons back behind bars.'

'Of course, sir. You can always count on me, sir.'

* * *

The days were hellish for Dr. Jonathan Crane. A lot of time was spent being decidedly bitter over his current situation, and at having to interact with such crude forms of human existence. At Arkham his expertise had garnered much respect from the orderlies, and in the Narrows his cruel streak had kept his henchman loyal, but what was there for him now? Exiled from his prestigious position to the torment of the outside world, he was judged by appearance over intellect, and he knew better than anyone that his appearance wasn't worth much. People cajoled him on the street, muggers deemed him an easy target, and society in general refused to accept him back into the fold. Like the bullies he had sworn to be rid of, they called him a queer and a scrawny waste of space.

Unlike his earlier years, however, Dr. Crane was more than comfortable with abetting any would-be attackers using vicious chemical means, and Scarecrow had a hoot turning potential threats into terrified test subjects.

Not that he had any breakthroughs to test out these days. It had been a hassle gathering enough manpower to get back into the drug trade to begin with, a move crucial in continuing his research, and getting his hands on the equipment needed for experimentation was proving incredibly difficult. His last reliable chemistry set had been destroyed in a search for evidence, and the Arkham sewer system, his old base of operations, was now understandably off-limits. There had been talk of Poison Ivy among the criminals under his employ, and if such rumours of Pamela's escape rang true, then there was no doubt she was a likely candidate to get him what he wanted. Indeed, as a botanist deeply involved in cross-species genetics, it was more than likely she would be able to get her hands on some basic essentials through use of her extensive contacts. Jonathan made a mental note to have a meeting arranged between the two of them; he was sure she would grant him this favour in return for the promise of Batman's hide.

For now, his business dealings were few and far between, mostly kept to the nights; conducted under cover of darkness and with a special degree of secrecy. As such, Crane found himself in the most detestable position of needing a legitimate job, if he ever wanted to get anywhere. A more stable income would allow him to procure supplies, and a respectable, if modest, career would keep him out of the eyes of the law for at least a little while longer. Crane had enquired about possible employment at several different retailers and a library, the latter of which kept him on for further inspection. After a short (and, of course, totally fabricated) interview in which he portrayed himself as the shy, kind-hearted introvert 'Andrew Phillips' through expert use of body language, he was now the Assistant Librarian at Gotham Public Library

It had only been two weeks on the job, but he liked the solitude. Nobody bothered him when he was working, not like that awful Rachel Dawes had all those times before. He even found the spare time to brush up on his chemistry when the place was quiet, which, in a way, was very often indeed. Scarecrow kept his distance during those times, crooning softly and petting dear Jonathan to make his presence known as the man flicked through pages in a dead calm. During moments like that he grew thankful for his other half's existence, banishing the shadows at the corners of his mind and making himself at home there, wearing Jonathan's crazy smirk like a second skin (just as Jonathan wore his).

Scarecrow simply tried to find a way to occupy his time. He hated the drag of the everyday, entertaining cruel fantasies and sometimes even vivid hallucinations of defeating Gotham's finest while his Jonny flashed them a falsely winning smile, yes please and thank you sir.

To combat this newfound stuffy boredom Scarecrow even helped Jonathan shelve, though somewhat detrimentally in order of obscure personal interest rather than the standard Dewey system. The books would be shoved back onto the shelves with perhaps more vigour than was necessary, and Crane could be seen to be muttering under his breath while performing the task; the only clear sign of his less than stable mental health.

He was currently sorting through the old records and newspapers kept for research by the facility, chuckling with a sense of pride at the article about his escapade in the Narrows, and relief that the press had left his picture out of the paper. There was a small degree of hope as he filed things away that he would find something that could help him get out of this unfortunate situation, though the possibility was far from likely.

Sliding yet another piece of print back into the space provided, an adjacent article caught his eye... something about the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, all those years ago. Not one to normally follow celebrity scandal, he had only a vague peripheral knowledge of the Wayne family, and had not personally been involved in arranging the recently generous donations to Arkham Asylum presented by the Wayne Foundation. No, he had been far too busy in his work with the 'patients,' and then busier still _as _a patient, to be up-to-date in the slightest with Gotham's favourite tragedy. The article however intrigued him, fascinated as he was by tricky psychological cases. Though not having seen the one surviving member of the billionaire family since his miraculous return, he had overheard rumour of- what was it, Brian? Robert? Benjamin?-Wayne's escapades from the giggling Arkham nurses, in between callously rejecting their uncouth advances. It seemed strange for such a violently orphaned child to appear so carefree as an adult with no outward sign of psychological trauma, especially one with the resources and social status available for some serious substance abuse. The residual damage must be internalised, but how did it manifest? It was true that Wayne's fear of abandonment and commitment issues were displayed through his reputation as a playboy, but he must have another outlet of some kind for what was no doubt an ingrained, constant anger at the people who-

Jonathan was cut off from his increasingly gleeful deconstruction of Wayne's psyche by a clipped cough at the front desk, and he looked over exasperatedly, setting the newspaper down and filing the Wayne case away in his head for another time. Sense told him there was more to the man than what was shown to the public eye.

_Everyone's got skeletons in the closet, Johnny; us more than most_, piped up Scarecrow, before erupting into laughter.

At Scarecrow's input, Crane merely sighed, shushing him with a click of his tongue as he moved back to the desk to greet the visitor.

The visitor in question, one Bruce Wayne to be exact, looked rather surprised at the lack of recognition from the young man at the desk. He had already tried to fend off several giddy library-goers to make it to the helpdesk, and had been bracing himself for another fawning fanboy getting in the way of anything productive.  
The billionaire raised an eyebrow at the assistant librarian's unexpectedly disinterested attitude, who, when he bothered to look up from the main console, was looking down his nose at him as if through a pair of glasses.  
The man twisted his full, pouting lips into a wry smile, tilting his head to observe Bruce as one would observe an unwanted house guest, condescension and distain evident in his eyes.

'Is there... something I can do for you?'

_To be continued.  
_

Remember kids, reviews are love! And more reviews means more motivation to write as I tell myself there are people actually reading this~ _  
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